


Lost in Translation

by Linguini, MercurialMind



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff, Memory Loss, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-07-29 12:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16264451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercurialMind/pseuds/MercurialMind
Summary: While on their exploration in Hissing wastes, the party runs into Venatori mages, and Cassandra is caught in a magical trap with unsettling consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

When the dinner ends, Cassandra is relieved, even though she knows Josephine will go on and on about the meeting and all the tedious topics discussed therein for the hours when they are back home. In spite of this, she will not be upset about recapping every single detail, since it is a completely different matter to hear it from Josephine.

As they settle on the couch in front of the fire that night, Josephine lays her head on Cassandra’s shoulder, rambling on, while Cassandra runs her fingers through Josephine’s hair and lets the sound of her voice wash over her. She tries to pay attention, but after a moment, her mind wanders off.

For a while, Josephine goes on, her voice soothing Cassandra’s thoughts.  Cassandra doesn’t know how long she’s been drifting, content, before Josephine calls Cassandra’s name softly.  

“My poor dear,” she smiles as she sits up to brush her hand gently across Cassandra’s cheek.  “You must have been bored to death tonight.”

“The count was tedious,” Cassandra says, and gives her a tiny half-smile. “But I never get bored of seeing you in your element.”

Josephine clicks her tongue and smiles, eyes half-lidded. “So, you’ve been watching me all the evening, my lady?” she asks, tilting her head charmingly.

Cassandra reaches up and cups Josephine’s cheek, sweeping her thumb along her cheekbone.  "I am always watching you,” she says softly.  "You’re incredibly captivating.“

"Goodness, It is a piece of luck I do not join you on the battlefield. How short-lived you would be!” Josephine says, mirth in her voice.

Cassandra, inspired by a similar scene in one of her books, reaches for her hand, pulls it to press against her own heart.  "You are  _always_ with me in battle.“

Josephine can feel the warmth radiating beneath her palm, and the thud of Cassandra’s heart that beats for her. "You…you are so sweet I find myself in lack of words,” she says, looking into her beautiful hazel eyes, and kisses her lips as sweet as her words.

Cassandra’s hand slips the back of Josephine’s neck, toys with the fine hairs there that have fallen out of her coif.  When she pulls away, Cassandra’s gaze is slightly distant in thought.  "I cannot recall being called sweet before.  Many other things–brash and fierce and strong–but never sweet.“

"Well…that is quite a shame then,” Josephine says. “Though, you are all those other things as well,” she continues with a whisper as she runs her fingers along Cassandra’s arm.

That breaks Cassandra’s contemplation, making her look up at Josephine.  She smiles at the look in her lover’s eyes, tugging her gently to lay back against her.  "You flatter me, Lady Montilyet.  To be called sweet by one such as you is quite the honor.“

"Well now, who’s flattering whom again?” Josephine says, smiling. She takes Cassandra’s hand and places a kiss on her knuckles. Then she closes her eyes, sighing with comfort, still holding Cassandra’s hand in hers.

Cassandra tucks her chin on the top of Josephine’s head and rubs her arm with her thumb idly.  Then, almost whispering, she says in Nevarran “My heart is yours, even when I am far from you, and I carry yours with me wherever I may roam.”

Josephine makes a pleased hum. “I rarely hear you speak Nevarran,” she says, smiling. “What does it mean?”

“It’s a line from an old poem,” Cassandra says, pressing her nose to Josephine’s hair, letting the scent of whatever oil she uses to tame it wash over her.   "Something a knight says to his love.  You’re not often heard speaking Antivan.  Do you miss it?

“Yes, I do miss it sometimes,” Josephine sighs. “What about you? Do you miss speaking Nevarran?”

“No.”  She presses a kiss to the top of Josephine’s head.  “The only people I would have cared to converse in with it are gone.  My happiness has been in Orlesian, and in Common.”  Her lips curl into a wry smile.  “And frequently in silence.”

Josephine is thoughtful for a moment, absentmindedly caressing Cassandra’s knuckles with her fingers. “I understand,” she says, the silence falling between them.

For a long while, the only sound is the crackling of the fire, the wind buffeting the windows of Josephine’s room.  “How many languages  _do_ you speak?” Cassandra asks, eventually.  “Common, Orlesian, Antivan, obviously.”

“Well, some Tevene, also a little Rivain, as they are the neighbors to Antiva. But I’m far from being fluent in those.”

“My talented love.”  Cassandra pulls her closer, and when Josephine shivers a little, reaches up to pull the blanket off the back of the couch to spread over her.  “I will never understand why you don’t wear more furs.  They would keep you warmer.”

Josephine lets out a small chuckle. “I suppose it has something to do with my mother…” she says, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself. “Since we were children, she always took care of that we knew the ways of fashion.” Then she turns to look at Cassandra, slightly quirking her eyebrow. “And furs…they are hardly fashionable.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise.  “Being warm is more important than fashion.  Suppose you are in the Frostbacks when a blizzard comes.  Where will fashion be then?  Clothes are meant for a purpose, which they either suit or do not.  Like people.”

“Always so pragmatic, my love,” Josephine giggles softly.

“It is only sensible.”  Though Cassandra huffs, she is not at all put out, and lets a comfortable silence fall between them again until the fire dims and they head to their bed for the night.

As they lie in bed, in the dark, Josephine shifts. “If you do not think about fashion, ever, how come you always look so good?” she asks playfully, her arm arcing over Cassandra’s waist.

Josephine has nearly always had a kind word for Cassandra, and flatters her more than is necessary, and still Cassandra blushes.  “That is just your eyes,” she says with laughter in her voice.  “You see what you would like to see.  Every piece I wear is designed for a specific purpose, nothing more.”

Josephine chuckles. They lie in silence for a while, only hearing each other breathe. Then she moves again. “So, if I began wearing only giant furs which would hide me from view entirely, would you still find me attractive?” she asks, propping herself up a little.

“Of all the things I find attractive about you,  _meine zvezd_ ,” Cassandra manages through her laughter.  “Your physical beauty is far down the list.”

“Fine,” Josephine huffs–though Cassandra can hear the smile in her voice–and settles back down on her pillow.  “So long as you think I’m pretty.”

Cassandra laughs again and reaches over in the darkness to tangle their fingers together, squeezing gently.  “Good night, Ambassador.”

* * *

 

A week later, when Cassandra opens the door of Josephine’s office at lunch time, she stops dead at the doorway, staring at the sight. Josephine is dressed up all in furs and leathers, stunning like a Ferelden queen.

The look Josephine gives her–a smooth ‘Ambassador’ look paired with an undercurrent of teasing–leaves Cassandra’s mouth dry.  She shuts the door behind her, but cannot force her feet to move further inside, even though her hands itch beneath her gloves.  “I see you have given in to the weather,” is all she can manage.  “My shins will be grateful for the reprieve from your icy feet.”

“I heard it is very fashionable in Ferelden to be dressed up according to weather,” Josephine quips, setting her quill down on the desk.

That makes Cassandra laugh genuinely, and cross the room to settle in the chair across from Josephine.  “You are very interested in fashion,” she admits.  “And you carry it off as well as you do anything else.  Are we to be treated to this sight for the rest of winter, then?”

Josephine smiles, tilting her head as she looks at Cassandra. “Thank you,” she says. Then she leans over the table and whispers: “This is so wonderfully warm that if someone tries to put me back into those silk and satin dresses this winter, I will scream.”

As always when Josephine gifts her with her unvarnished opinions, or that hint of deviousness that makes her dark eyes sparkle, a rush of warm affection floods through Cassandra.  “You will not.  You will only make that disappointed face, and perhaps wave your hands around, but the effect will be the same.”

Josephine leans back on her chair. “I think you know me too well”, she says, her lips pursing. Then she stands up, piling her papers. “Time for some lunch?”

Cassandra stands with her, holding the door for her as they enter the Great Hall.  Most of the population of Skyhold is there, but it’s no trouble for them to find a seat, not with Josephine’s reputation and easy smile.  She seems to know something about everyone, enquiring after this woman’s son or that man’s work or this soldier’s blistered hand.  Skyhold loves Josephine, and Josephine them, and Cassandra throws one of her unending prayers of thanks to the Maker for his generosity in drawing them together.


	2. Chapter 2 (Cassandra)

The dunes in Hissing Wastes are endless, the days burning hot under the sun which shines from the cloudless sky, and the nights freezing cold. The evenings are spent by the campfire, trying to stay warm while cleaning the armor from the sand that gets everywhere.

They move slowly because of the terrain, and by the time they find the crumbling fortress hiding the Venatori mages, relations between the party members are fractious, and a sullen silence has fallen over them. Getting into the fortress itself proves not to be difficult, and they meet little resistance until they are well in the bowels of the building. More than once, Cassandra has to help Sera over mounds of shifting sand or yank the Inquisitor back from a magical trap as she runs heedlessly through the corridors. By the time they burst into the room where the Venatori mages are conducting their ceremony, there’s already a pall of tiredness over the group.

The mages gathered around the circle are startled and the summoning interrupted as they brace themselves for battle. A field of purple magic still remains, sizzling around the summoning circle. They hear shouts in Tevene and spells are cast, as Cassandra charges forward, knocking down two of them. Dorian is quick to raise a barrier around the party, and the Inquisitor traps one of the mages into a swirling cyclone of ice shards while Sera puts an arrow through one’s head.

The enemies fall one after the other, as the party fights with habitual confidence. But when Cassandra slices through one of the mages close to the summoning circle, she gets suddenly drawn into the field of magic. She lets out a cry as the strength of it pushes her into the middle, immediately trapping her inside.

Excruciating pain races through her body when the electric threads pierce her. A haze covers her vision, through which she can barely make out the party fighting the last enemies, outside the field, before the pain overwhelms her again.  Then, darkness.

* * *

 

The wind howling outside her tent wakes Cassandra up. She grumbles and turns over…and blinks dry eyes at the orange sandstone surrounding her, not at all the thin canvas she expects.  The dry heat is just as surprising, and more so, the hazy form of three strangers surrounding her.  Immediately, she rises, drawing her sword and pointing it at the nearest of them.

“Who are you?” she demands. The nearest of them steps forward into the light, reaching for her until she slashes at him, cutting his arm deeply. “Don’t come any closer. Tell me who you are and why you’ve taken me.”

Another of them approaches, and Cassandra swings again, just as her eyes clear enough to make out the features of the Herald.  Immediately, she freezes, dropping her weapon to her side. “Herald!  I didn’t realize it was you.  My apologies.”

“Cassandra?” The Herald stares at her, then she says something else that Cassandra cannot understand. When she doesn’t answer, the Inquisitor turns to look at the two others, exchanging words, again in a language unfamiliar to her.

“What are you doing?” she demands, followed by yet another set of strange words from the others.

The sounds coming out of the mouths of the others don’t resemble any form of words that Cassandra knows, and she grows suspicious. Perhaps this is not the Herald after all.  Neither of the other two are recognizable to her: a small blonde elf in ragged clothing and a man with somewhat oily hair whose arm she slashed before.  Perhaps they are really demons and she has fallen into the Fade somehow.  With a frustrated growl, she barks at them, “I am not fooled, demon. Show your true self.”  

The others exchange a string of words again. She catches one she recognizes, “Nevarran”. Then the man with oily black hair and quite ridiculous moustache steps in front. “I Dorian,” he says. “You no remember?”

“What are you talking about?  Why are you talking like a child?  I’ve never met someone called Dorian in my life, and certainly not you.”  She scowls, and keeps her sword raised.  “What is this place?  Why am I here?’

The man called Dorian turns to look at the others, raising his eyebrows, looking confused. Then he talks to Cassandra again. “I no understand.”

Narrowing her eyes, she speaks clearly, distinctly.  “Where are we?  Who are you?  Why are we here?  What have you done to the Herald?”

Dorian sighs.  “I no understand. You say Nevarra.”

With a frustrated growl, she turns away from him and towards the Herald, who has that look of soft concern that Cassandra has seen as she works with the wounded and scared of Haven.  It is slightly more disconcerting when directed her way.  “Herald, can you explain?”

The Herald reaches out a hand to rest on Cassandra’s arm, squeezing gently as she holds her gaze.  But once again, whatever she says is lost to Cassandra’s ears.  None of them seem to be standing in her way.  Without sheathing her sword, Cassandra walks from the room, determined to learn more from this…circumstance.  It is not a place she’s ever been before, and as she walks to the outside, she comes across several bodies, the wounded and dead of a small skirmish.  Once outside, she is hit with a blast of incredibly hot sand, sending her to the lee of the building for shelter.  She leans against the wall, keeping her gaze on the land around her and her sword ready while she attempts to make sense of whatever it is going on.

Has she gone completely mad?

She has no memory of coming to this place, or the people accompanying her. Why will no one understand what she says?

Dorian approaches her and holds out his hand for her to take. “Cassandra, comes. We go.”  She looks at him, incredulous until he drops his hand. What in the Maker’s name is happening?

Warily, she trails him to join the rest of the party out of the building and into the seemingly endless desert. She walks in the rear of their column, and eventually loses enough of the unease that’s dogged her since she woke up to sheathe her sword again. They walk forever, her feet sinking into the sand. What is this place?

When the sun has nearly disappeared behind the horizon, they finally stop. She sees a camp, and from the clothing of the scouts, who are unloading supplies, she recognizes them to be members of the Inquisition.

As they arrive in camp, Cassandra’s confusion only grows.  Everyone around her seems to be speaking in the same strident, unintelligible gibberish as before until the truth becomes as apparent as the symbol of the Seekers emblazoned on her chest.  The problem is not the others being unable to make sense; the problem is clearly with her.  

But how can this be?  The Inquisition speaks Common, and Cassandra has been fluent in it from childhood.  Perhaps she hit her head and this is only a momentary confusion.  After all, her head does ache fiercely, and there is an unpleasant pinching behind her eyes.  When Dorian appears with a bowl of whatever the camp cooks have on offer, she refuses.  “I am going to bed,” she says, and when he frowns, says it more slowly as if talking to a very small child.

That, at least, gets through to him, and he says only “Best sleep,” before returning to his huddle with the Herald and the blonde elf who chattered incessantly all the way from the fortress.  Cassandra retires to bed, and prays for a good night’s sleep to solve this vexing problem.

* * *

 

Unfortunately, any hope of clarity are dashed the moment she steps outside of her tent the next morning.  A young soldier stands at attention as she passes and greets her with a deferential nod.  All around her are the sounds of the camp waking, greetings and instructions and the usual dull buzz of an army awakening for the day, and not one syllable of it is intelligible to her ears.  

There is, however, one place where words are not necessary. With her head still throbbing on her shoulders, Cassandra stalks to the training ground, unsheathes her sword and begins.  This, still, she understands.


	3. Chapter 3 (Cassandra)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on in, anything in Italics is said in Nevarran, including the bits of the Chant of Light that Cassandra recites. Anything in plain text is said in Common. (If you find any places where the formatting looks wrong, please let us know.)

So it is a fortress now, the headquarters for the Inquisition. Cassandra examines the building from the road leading upwards the mountain with a critical eye as she follows the convoy. The size of it is impressive. An excellent place, when thinking from a tactical point of view. Furthermore, she is happy to know they are finally reaching their destination after weeks of travel. And what a dull journey has it been, with no one understanding her. Dorian has tried to reach out to her with basic words, and by now she has began to understand a word in Common here and there, none of it is enough to create a real conversation. She hopes and prays that some healer will be able to help her.

 

The large gates of the fortress (“Skyhold,” Dorian tells her, gesturing to the imposing structure and repeating it several tedious times) open and admit the party. There is the usual chatter that Cassandra remembers from returning from missions with the Herald--  No, the Inquisitor, as Dorian has told her more than once. She follows the company to the stables where she hands her reins off to the stablehand that appears beside her horse. The advisors are all there, and the Her-- Inquisitor heads directly for them. They huddle for a moment, with the Ambassador catching Cassandra’s eye and giving her some meaningful look that Cassandra cannot interpret.  She knows what the Inquisitor will be telling them, and can already see the worried, sympathetic looks on their faces. 

 

Suddenly, it’s all too much to bear, and she leaves the stables as quickly as she can.  It’s only once she’s in the bracing mountain air that she realizes the flaw in her plan.  She has no idea where to go.

 

She wanders around the courtyard without a  destination, trying to find familiar faces. The place looks even bigger from inside. She hears people talk while doing their daily chores, so many of them strangers to her. As she stops at the bottom of a wide set of stone stairs, she feels a hand on her shoulder and turns around. She is met with a pair of bright blue eyes which belong to her old friend.

 

“Leliana!” she greets her, more than happy to see her. Though her heart sinks as the realization hits her...she will not understand her either.

 

“Cassandra,” Leliana says, smiling. There is a string of words she does not understand, then her friend gestures for her to follow. “Come,” she tells her then.  And that word in Common she has already learned by heart.

 

Obligingly, Cassandra follows Leliana’s winding trail, arriving eventually at the forge. She frowns as she enters, and is even more confused when Leliana takes her up the flight of stairs, to a small platform.  This is clearly someone’s living space--there’s a bedroll tucked in the corner and a locked trunk next to it...her locked trunk, she realizes. This must be her quarters, then. Cassandra turns and finds a rack for her armor and shield right where she expects them to be.  There is no resonance to this space, no tug of belonging, but Leliana would not lead her astray in this.

 

When she’s down to her normal attire, Leliana gives her another smile and leads the way back out into the courtyard, this time stopping at the training yard.  The training dummies are lined up in a row, with one set off from the others. Leliana gestures to this one and Cassandra gives it a cursory inspection. It appears to have been reinforced with some sort of slick coating to the stuffed body and head that makes them feel...stiffer somehow.  The glint of humor in Leliana’s eyes as she turns back is all the confirmation she needs. This, then, is her training area. “Thank you,’ she says, then again, forcing the softer unfamiliar consonants of the Common across her tongue. Leliana smiles at her, mimes eating as she speaks, and turns on her heel, leaving Cassandra alone with the training dummy and her thoughts.

 

When Leliana is gone, she decides to climb back up the stairs to her lodgings. She goes through the pockets of her breeches, finding the key she has been carrying around, and tries it to the lock of the trunk. She opens it to find a pile of clothing, some letters and beneath everything, two books which look wonderfully familiar. It makes her smile, and she grabs one, settling onto her bedroll.

 

She is happy to read words she knows, taking her mind off from all the absurdness happening around her. She is completely absorbed by the story by the time she hears a pair of feet coming up the stairs, startling her.

 

She recognizes the man from Haven, the healer Adan. She stands up and gives him a smile as he greets her. Clearly, he has been told about her condition, as he does not attempt to speak more. He gestures her to sit down on the stool, and begins to examine her. 

 

He takes her head into his hand, looking for visible signs of injury, though most of them would be gone by now since their long journey to Skyhold. He goes on his knee and checks her eyes, pressing his hands against her temples, his magic prickling on her skin. 

 

After a while, he withdraws and smiles at her. He gives a small nod as he stands up ready to leave. 

 

Cassandra’s head burns with questions but she lacks the words even in Nevarran, to describe the frustration she feels.

 

As he turns to leave, she reaches out and grabs his wrist, mouth opened to let her questions come spilling out.  But that would be futile--he cannot understand her, and she would not be able to understand him. Reluctantly, she releases him, and tries not to let the sympathetically encouraging look he gives her grate on her nerves.  With a sigh, she stretches back out on her bedroll and starts her book again.

 

It is no use.  Even the familiar words bring her no comfort. There still exists a restless itching just under her skin, like being around a lightning mage for too long, and her restless legs take her down the steps of her loft and out into Skyhold again.  If this is to be her new home, she might as well learn it, so she sets out on an exploratory circuit until Leliana appears to drag her to dinner in the awkward noise of the Great Hall. 

 

They’re joined part-way through by the Ambassador, who settles on Cassandra’s right side, close enough for them to be pressed together on the bench.  She and Leliana have some sort of discussion while they eat, which Cassandra allows to wash over her.

 

When the meal is over, she feels exhaustion take over her, borne as much from the strain of the mission as from her brain’s constant attempts to make sense of the din around her. As she stands up from the table, the Ambassador does as well. 

 

Cassandra scours her mind for one of the handful of words she’s re-learned.  “Sleep. Good night”, she says, giving a smile at Leliana, and nods at the Ambassador before turning away. 

 

Both women return the smile, but the Ambassador’s hand comes to rest on her arm. Cassandra glances at it, then looks at the woman in the eye, slightly confused.

 

“Good night”, Lady Montilyet says, something in her eyes again which leaves Cassandra wondering. But everything is strange at this point, so she slightly bows her head and gives it no other thought as she leaves the Great Hall behind her and returns to her place over the forge.

 

***

 

The next few days are much the same.  She submits to poking and prodding from healers, mages, even Vivienne and Solas.  None of it seems to come to any fruition, which only increases her frustration until she refuses any further encounters.  She may not have a fluent grasp of Common yet, but her presence is still formidable, and the look of thunder on her face means the same thing in any language.

 

She spends long hours training in the yard, and even longer hours on her knees in the Chantry, praying to the Maker for guidance, for wisdom to understand her trials, for a solution.  This proves as fruitless as the healers’ proddings, and eventually she stops asking, opting instead for the verses of the Chant which have always guided her steps.

 

_ You have walked beside me _

_ Down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh. _

_ You have stood with me when all others  _

_ Have forsaken me. _

 

_ I have faced armies  _

_ With You as my shield, _

_ And though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing _

_ Can break me except Your absence. _

 

She prays and trains, trains and prays and tries to ignore the gnawing loneliness she hasn’t felt since the days of her uncle’s gilded cage.

 

Then one afternoon, as she is yet again slicing her dummies, fueled by the frustration and anger, she is interrupted by a soft voice calling her name. As she stops and puts down her sword, sweat trickling down her back, she turns and sees Lady Montilyet standing by the tree, holding a book in her arms. 

 

“ _I want speak you_ ,” she says, her tongue rolling strangely on Nevarran words. Cassandra’s brows rise with surprise as the Ambassador opens the book and shows it to her. “ _Look_ ,” Lady Montilyet says and smiles at her, “ _Come, my_ …”, she sighs and goes to the back pages of the book, searching. After a moment, she looks at Cassandra again. “ _My office...come_.”

 

Cassandra looks at her, then at herself, gesturing at her disheveled looks. She points at her clothes, then the direction of her lodgings, and Lady Montilyet nods, presumably understanding. 

 

“ _Five cheese_ s,” Lady Montilyet says, holding up her hand with her fingers spread. 

 

Cassandra frowns for a moment in confusion before understanding dawns.  “ _Five_ _ minutes _ ,” she corrects, enunciating carefully.  

 

Lady Montilyet doesn’t seem to take any offence, repeating Cassandra exactly.  “ _Five minutes_.” 

 

Cassandra nods and heads off to her lodgings and to find something to wear that doesn’t smell like a druffalo has dragged her through a fetid bog.


	4. Chapter 4 (Josephine)

When Leliana arrives in Josephine’s office with a missive in her hand and the most sympathetic look Josephine has ever seen on her friend, a sudden dread fills Josephine’s heart.

 

_ Cassandra is dead _ .

 

But no, Leliana would not let her read it in a letter, would not stand so far away if that were the case.  So something terrible, but not the unthinkable. With steady fingers, Josephine unties the ribbon and opens the small scroll, translating the Inquisitor’s private cipher automatically in her head.

 

_ Leliana, _

_ Cutting the mission short.  Seeker victim of Venatori magic trap.  Arcane? Can speak only Nevarran, understands no other (Common, Orlesian, or Tevene), no memory of last year.  Dorian knows little Nevarran, but not enough to help. Send team to fortress: mages, Templars, arcanists. Arrive in Skyhold 6 days.  Inform Amb., Cmdr., Viv, Solas, Dagna. Will let you know any further info. _

 

_ Evelyn _

 

Josephine takes a moment to process the wealth of information in the relatively few sentences, then looks at Leliana in horror. “This...this is…” she is unable to form words, her thoughts bouncing and disorganized.

 

Leliana lays a hand on hers and squeezes firmly. “We will figure this out once they arrive. I will send a group to investigate the fortress and to study the magic used in there.”

 

The waiting is always horrible, but this time it is even worse. Josephine knows that though Cassandra will most probably remember her, she will have no idea about their relationship. Tears gather in her eyes when she thinks about the matter as she lies in their empty bed. Those are sleepless nights, which usually end up with her climbing up to the rookery where the Nightingale is always awake,  working on her network, sending ravens and overseeing everything. 

 

“Sails of patience, Josie,” she says gently as Josephine passes on her endless loop of the rookery.

 

_ The roughest seas require the sails of the most patience. _  Josephine can hear her father’s voice through time and memory.  “ _ I’m  _ the one who taught you that,” Josephine protests mildly.  Nonetheless, she sits down in the armchair in the corner of the rookery and lets Leliana’s voice finally lull her into a restless sleep.

 

When the Inquisitor’s party arrives at the gates, Josephine hurries to the courtyard, accompanied by Leliana and Cullen.   It takes a long moment before she finally sees Cassandra amongst the crowd of people gathered at the stables. For a moment, her heart forgets and she sends Cassandra the usual smile before remembering it is completely futile. Cassandra...she will not know what it means. Her heart clenches in her chest as she sees no other recognition in her lover’s eyes than mere acquaintance. She catches the hint of confusion in Cassandra’s look as a response, and turns her head, pushing back the tears which begin to gather.

 

Seeing Cassandra the following days is excruciating. Josephine doesn't know what she should do. She wants nothing more than to gather Cassandra into her arms and tell her how much she loves her. As she sees the agony, frustration and worry on Cassandra’s face, she wants to assure her that everything is alright. But she stays afar as she does not want to add to the pressure Cassandra must surely already feel. It is better for their love to remain a secret--at least for now.

 

As she watches from the ramparts the methodical movement with which Cassandra turns around and slashes her training dummy, she hears Cole on the wall beside her.

 

“There is darkness in the lonely place, where no one else can reach. The words not intelligible, though everything should be. Unknown. Uncertain. Fear of what will be. Why can’t I remember?” he rocks his feet against the stone as he speaks, and Josephine looks at Cassandra again. She makes her decision.

 

She spends the whole day searching through the library in Skyhold, which should be in better order, she points out to the Inquisitor, frustrated when she cannot find what she’s looking for. It takes her another half a day of searching to finally hold a suitable book in her hands. Though it’s  _ Nevarran for Merchants - the Basics for Trading _ , it will have to do. 

 

With the book firmly in her arms, she heads to her office and settles at her desk to examine it. She will only need the very basic words to begin with. As she goes through the pages, she tries to form the strange words in her mouth, frowning at herself, knowing this is the only way if she wishes to approach Cassandra. 

 

Her efforts are successful, and it’s not long before she finds herself in the company of Cassandra again, sipping tea in her office. The atmosphere is awkward but cordial, and they are silent for nearly the entirety of the first cup of tea.  When they have finished, Josephine pulls the book in front of her, thumbing through the pages to the section on formal negotiations. There is very little to help her, and she is forced to cobble together what she needs. “ _ Would you desire a further cup, Cassandra _ ?”

 

Her pidgin Nevarran seems to be just as stilted and riddled with errors as the first time she attempted it, because Cassandra gives her that particular tilted head look with the faintest of furrows between her eyes as she tries to parse Josephine’s meaning. Josephine is left with the impression that she has offered to help Cassandra with a particularly annoying problem of too many nugs rather than ask her if she would like more tea.  In the end, Cassandra seems to work it out and holds her cup towards Josephine with a slightly amused quirk of her lips. Josephine returns the smile and adds the tiniest smidgen of milk to Cassandra’s cup, just the way she likes it and tries to ignore the twisting of her heart when Cassandra looks surprised at the thoughtfulness.

 

Cassandra asks a question, too quickly for Josephine to follow, even when she repeats herself more slowly.  With a mildly disgusted noise, Cassandra reaches for the tome and turns it towards her, flipping through the pages to find what she needs.  As she points out the words, Josephine takes notes on a scrap piece of parchment.

 

“We before together have tea?”

 

Josephine turns the book back to herself, finds the appropriate words and rolls it around in her head before she tries to say it.  “ _ Every day _ .”

 

Cassandra gifts her with one of her rare smiles, even more uncommon in the past weeks as the days stretch on with no sign of remedy for her affliction. For the rest of the afternoon, the two of them huddle over the book, doing their best to pick out enough words to keep up light conversation from paragraphs about transnational shipping tariffs and customs laws in Cumberland. They are something less than successful, but neither seems to matter. More important is the weight of loneliness that Josephine observes slipping from Cassandra’s shoulders as the warm laughter fills the room.


	5. Chapter 5 (Cassandra)

When Cassandra returns to her lodgings later that afternoon, she feels lighter than she has in weeks. She is slightly baffled by the kindness Lady Montilyet has shown her, even though she should feel no special obligation towards Cassandra. It seems they have become somewhat close during the Inquisition, if she has interpreted correctly their daily tea sessions. So much must have happened, and she feels the sudden sting of anguish again, which she pushes away. _Not now, not after such a lovely time_.

When she arrives at the top of the forge, she glances at her bedroll, and instead of falling onto it to bury herself in the world of a Nevarran book, this time she dons her armor and decides to head to the training grounds outside the walls.

When she arrives, she edges around the grounds, leans against a wall of the barracks, and sees Cullen further ahead shouting encouragements to the recruits. The air is brisk, the wind on the mountains stronger than it was in Haven. She listens to the steady sound of blades and shields clanging against each other, and the countless grunts of exertion. How can she still fail to remember what has happened? It seems such an absurdity, one she cannot stop thinking about. But before she yet again begins to drown in her thoughts, she steps up and approaches Cullen and the soldiers. The closest of the soldiers stop their practice to stand straight and to bow their heads as soon as they notice her.

“Cassandra,” Cullen says, tone surprised but not unwelcoming, then a string of words she pairs with the smile on his face to mean that he is glad to see her. She smiles and gestures with her sword towards the soldiers, hoping he will understand her.

He does, since he points with his hand towards a recruit who is standing close, and says something to her. Then he turns to Cassandra and smiles, showing she should go with her.

The rest of the afternoon goes by as she trains with the soldiers, who challenge her one after the other. She is glad to receive such respect as they give her and company in which she does not need to speak. No one requires anything else from her except skill with her sword and her shield.

By the time they are done the evening is darkening, and she walks along the soldiers to the tavern to have a meal. She sits in silence in the company of men and women who all smell strongly leather, metal and sweat. The food is hearty, just the way she likes it, and she smiles, listening to the ripple of conversation surrounding her, not truly minding that she can only catch a few words here and there.

Her body is tired from the efforts of the training. After having a quick wash at the basement of Skyhold, where hot baths are poured every evening, she heads back to her lodgings, pleasantly sore after a good day. That night, she falls asleep easily, which has not happened in what feels like a minor eternity.

* * *

The next day, she finds herself in front of Lady Montilyet’s door again, at the same hour as the day before. Since they have clearly made this a habit, why change now? Besides, she enjoyed the Ambassador’s company very much, and it would not harm anyone if she tried improving her Common a little.

The Ambassador is still at her desk when she invites Cassandra in, frowning in concentration at a pile of papers in front of her.  But when she looks up, she gives her a bright smile. “ _Hello, my friend_.”

Cassandra is pleasantly warmed at Lady Montilyet’s cheerfulness.  She searches her mind for the bits of Common she’s managed to learn so far.  “I think we tea together can have?” The phrase from the day before eludes her for a moment before she adds, “Every day?”

Lady Montilyet’s smile grows wider and warmer.  “ _Yes, please.  I am liking that.”_ She rises from her desk and crosses the room to the tea set on the coffee table.  “Come,” she calls to Cassandra, then gives her a wry smile and corrects herself. “ _Come_.”  With economical motions, she fills the kettle with water from the pitcher and sets it over the fire before portioning out the tea leaves.

“ _You have good day_?” she asks.

“Very good,” Cassandra replies.  “I have a….” She frowns, considers.  “More..” She mimes sharpening a sword with a rueful smile.

“Sharper sword?” Lady Montilyet ventures.  

“A more sharper sword and my--” She sweeps her hands towards her chest.  “--is more clean.”

“Clothes?”  Lady Montilyet tugs at her sleeve.

Cassandra shakes her head.  “More hard.”

Lady Montilyet’s eyes light up in recognition.  “ _Harnisch --_ armor.”  The word she chooses is archaic, but captures Cassandra’s meaning.

“My armor is more clean.  It is a good day.” When her host gestures towards the settee, she settles in the corner.  “And you, Lady Montilyet?”

“Oh no! No Lady,” Josephine giggles. “Josephine,” she says then. “ _If it pleases your business custom._ ”

For a moment, Cassandra is concerned that she has misinterpreted the nature of their meeting.  But the Ambassador is missing the placid features of a good business deal, and instead has the look she saves for her friends.  It must be a feature of this book they’re using, then. Cassandra can’t find it in herself to correct such an earnest effort, so she just smiles back and repeats, “Josephine.”

Something in her chest tugs lightly, grows warm.  A comfortable silence settles between them as Josephine prepares the tea, adding just the right amount of milk to Cassandra’s without being told.   _Every day_ , she reminds herself.

Once they’re both settled--Cassandra on the settee and Josephine in a nearby armchair--Cassandra thinks for a moment what to say. Maybe it would be time to asks some serious questions about the past year.

“What happen for Haven?” she asks finally.

A pained look crosses Josephine’s face while she gathers the words.  She flips through the book on the table beside her. “ _No good.  Snow. Much snow._ Corypheus.”  Josephine shrugs, lost for further explanation.

There is a weight to the word as it falls from Josephine’s lips, but “Corypheus” means nothing to Cassandra.  Something of her confusion must show in her face, and Josephine tries to clarify. “ _Bad man.  Makes_ Breech _\--”_  Her hand waves above her head in an approximation of the swirling green vortex in the sky that Cassandra remembers from the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.  “ _He want power for whole Thedas.”_

Cassandra is thoughtful for a moment. It will be very hard to gain all the information she is missing. She finds it very difficult to word specific questions, so she goes for a more general one. “What much happen here?” she asks then, taking a careful sip from her cup.

Josephine fiddles with the handle of her mug and seemingly considers what to tell her. Cassandra is a Seeker of Truth in any language, and she feels there is something Josephine is holding back. Maybe the year has been difficult for everyone, and it is hard to speak about it? She moves closer to Josephine, laying her hand upon her arm. “No need speak,” she says, seeing Josephine glance at her hand, then raise her head to look at her, something flashing in her eyes. It leaves Cassandra in confusion. She notices how Josephine swallows and places her own hand gently upon hers, smiling so sweetly that it leaves Cassandra suddenly breathless -- completely unexpected.

“ _Much happen_ ,” Josephine says finally and sighs. Slowly, she raises the cup to her lips without moving Cassandra’s hand from her arm.

“Bad things?”

Josephine looks at their hands again. “ _No...and yes,_ ” she decides on her reply. Then she sets her cup down and reaches for the book once more. “ _More learn_?” she suggests, and Cassandra nods even though she feels the slight tension in the air between them.  With a small sense of regret that she doesn’t quite understand, Cassandra lets her hand fall away and shifts closer to see the book.  There’s a sudden brushing of hair on her face, and she is started for a moment.

Ah.  This is something she’s noticed, actually, and now has the words to ask.  “You clothes, now fur?” she gestures at Josephine’s outfit. “No in Haven.”

“Oh,” Josephine makes a small surprised sound, keeping her eyes on the book. Her mouth is suddenly a straight line as she seems to tense. “ _Cold in Skyhold_.”

“It is good,” Cassandra says.

A slight chuckle leaves Josephine’s lips and she glances at her, eyes full of warmth. “ _I am thanking to you_.”

Though the language barrier is frustrating, and everything seems so obscure, Cassandra cannot dislike the slight feeling of thrill at the back of her mind.

The fire crackles pleasantly in the background, and as they focus back to the book in front of them, skimming through its pages, the tension seems to dissipate, slowly turning into more smiles, soft laughter and yet another delightful afternoon.


End file.
